


Wings

by Tofutti



Series: wish we were home now [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Wingfic, block men have eaten my heart, hi hello yes i am still reeling from the sixteenth, three times phil was a good dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27759820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tofutti/pseuds/Tofutti
Summary: When the storm pounded against the windows-When he came home battered and lost-When the sky cried ashes-Philza was there.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Series: wish we were home now [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2184786
Comments: 23
Kudos: 107





	Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is written about the characters portrayed by these content creators during roleplay. If either of these creators expresses that they are uncomfortable with works that use their characters in this way, I will not hesitate to take this down.

The first time, Wilbur was seven, and it was dark.

The window alcove was cold. He was pressed against the glass, listening to the rain splatter and pound against the roof. Shuddering, shivering, he pulled the blanket closer around himself.

Lightning shattered the sky. It hurled the world into blazing contrast and cast the empty hallway in bright blue-white. Thunder followed, tearing through the plattering soundscape of the rain. Wilbur sobbed. He hunched his shoulders, letting the hot tears roll down his face. His head ached with a heavy pressure as he gasped for breath, hugging himself tight with trembling hands. 

It was too much. 

Each splatter of rain against glass pounded and tore at the insides of his skull. The windowpanes rattled in the wind, which howled and moaned and cried.  _ Like a ghast _ , some cruel part of him noted, though he had never seen one, only heard stories. The hallway was dark and silent and cold, alien from the corridor he knew by day. He had ran from his room, only to find himself paralyzed outside his father’s door, hand hovering over the knob. When his hand finally grasped the cold metal, thunder shook the hallway and he ran to the window alcove, terrified and trembling but needing, needing to see outside. He was stuck there now, unable to move, to tear his eyes away from the outdoors lest some fearsome creature of the storm sneak up on him. Each strike of lightning charged a creeper. Each scream of the wind was a ghast, escaped from the Nether, arrived to blow his home to pieces. 

It was too much.

His fingernails were digging into the skin of his back as he shuddered, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He trembled, gasping through his sobs, flinching when lighting flared again, splitting the sky, setting everything alight. He could see the shapeless shadows of mobs haunting the trees outside. They were barely visible through his blurred vision. 

It was too much. It was too much. It was too much.

“Wilbur?”

He looked up, and there was a shadow in the hallway. The door was ajar, there was a form, a creature, tall and dark, walking towards him, its steps landed light against the floorboards, it was a creeper, and he would die, he would die, he would die, blown to pieces. He would die. The first of his three lives, gone in an instant. There wasn’t enough air in his lungs; he gasped for breath, gasped and choked on tears. Veins thrumming with hot terror, he pressed himself against the cold window. He was going to-

“Wilbur!” A flash of lightning illuminated Philza’s concerned face. He was kneeling next to the alcove, a tentative hand reached in Wilbur’s direction. “Oh my god, Will, are you okay?”

Wilbur shook his head with a sob as the thunder crashed, reaching for his father. Phil wrapped him in a hug, pulling him close. His embrace was warm, strong. Wilbur found himself dissolving into his arms. His shaky breaths steadied. 

“Oh, Will,” Phil murmured. The familiar rumble of his voice was enough to calm Wilbur’s shaking hands. “Storm got you spooked?” 

He nodded into Phil’s nightshirt. Phil hummed, picking him up. Wilbur buried his face into his chest, drinking in the scent of safety, letting his father’s arms block out the sounds of the storm. Phil’s stride was steady, even, comforting. He didn’t care where they were going. He fisted his hands tighter into the fabric.

His face was forced away from Phil’s chest as he set him down on his bed. Wilbur, tears still dripping down his face, pulled his blanket over him and stared at the wall. 

Phil sighed, bed dipping as he sat down beside him. “Come here,” he said. When Wilbur looked up, Phil’s arms were outstretched, his wings spread wide behind him.

Wilbur blinked, rubbing away the tears. He had only seen Phil unfold his wings once before, when Tommy had accidently hurled himself off a cliff a few months before. Phil had sprinted to the edge, diving after him and flying him back to safety with powerful wingbeats that blew dust into Wilbur’s eyes and made the scrubby trees shudder and groan. Wilbur ran his hands through the feathers on multiple occasions, but never had he truly gotten to see them. 

Phil had a sad, soft smile on his face, the storm was howling and screaming and sobbing knife-sharp raindrops, and Wilbur wanted nothing more in that moment than to be held. He threw himself into his father’s arms. Phil held him tight, close, safe.

Then, Phil was wrapping his wings around them, and Wilbur felt himself start to calm for real. It was dark and quiet underneath, the thunder muffled. The feathers spread like a dark tent over his head. He ran his hand along the swathe of primaries, finding it smooth and soft. The anxiety churning his stomach unraveled like a badly tied knot, and Wilbur yawned, curling up in his father’s lap. 

“It’s okay,” Phil whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Wilbur’s head as he drifted back to sleep. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

* * *

The second time, Wilbur was 23, and he hadn’t been home in a long while. 

He stood before his father’s door, feeling like shit. He hadn’t slept in days. His brain was one big fog of stress and anger. His wounds were healing, but slowly, and the burn on his left hip throbbed with a dull, poisonous sort of pain. It probably shouldn’t have been as easy as it was to find this house. His father moved around a lot, but Philza always made sure his kids could find him. Always.

As it was, it still took him far too long to get there. He just wanted to see his dad. 

He raised his hand and knocked. There was a distant shout of “coming!” from somewhere deep in the base, and Wilbur sighed at the familiar voice. 

A few moments later, Phil opened the door. He gasped when he saw Wilbur, looking him up and down, jaw slack.

Wilbur wondered who he saw: his son, finally returned? Or a man in a dusty uniform, exhausted and set adrift?

Then he wondered if, when Phil heard what he’d accomplished, he’d be proud. He wondered if he’d be ashamed once he heard what it took to get him there, and had to swallow back the bile that rose in his throat. He felt ill.

“Wilbur,” Phil breathed. He wrapped him in a hug. “You’re here.”

“Phil?” Wilbur whispered into Phil’s hair, leaning into the embrace.

“Yeah?”

“We won,” he said, and Phil pulled away, a grin splitting his face. There was a glint in his eyes that Wilbur recognized as pride as he looked at him, and Wilbur felt his stomach twist.

“I knew you could,” he said with conviction. “So why’d you come to see your old man? Really, you could have just sent me another letter. You’ve got to be busy, now, huh?”

Wilbur pulled his arms out of Phil’s grasp, wrapping them around himself.

“Oh.” Phil dropped his arms to his sides, trying to meet Wilbur’s eyes. “It’s not that simple.”

“Tommy-” Wilbur blurted without thinking. He cringed, realizing it was too late to back up. “Tommy... died.” He stared at the grass beneath his feet. The words felt horrid and poisonous as he breathed them in, and he wanted to take them back, to explain,  _ please, I know it was wrong, I know it was my fault, I shouldn’t have shouldn’t have shouldn’t have _ -

“Hey.” Phil stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Wilbur looked up to see Phil’s kind gaze, searching but soft. “Let’s go inside, shall we? It’s getting kinda late.”

Wilbur glanced to the left, where the sky was starting to bruise as day entered its death throes. He sighed, nodded, and followed Phil into his base. 

It didn’t take long for them to reach a kitchen of sorts. Before he knew it he was seated at a table. Phil rushed around the room, preparing tea. 

“So, what is it that you’re so worked up about?” Phil asked as the water heated. He sat down across from Wilbur, expression concerned, soft. 

“Tommy died,” Wilbur repeated, mouth dry. He had to force the words out; they came viscous, clotted, and thick. He had never felt so undeserving of the kindness on his father’s face. “It was my fault.”

“Your fault?” Phil raised an eyebrow. He still looked calm. Wilbur knew it was a front. “How is that?”

“I- I shouldn’t have-” Wilbur buried his face in his hands, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, there’s so much I did  _ wrong _ , Phil! I can’t believe…” He forced out a painful breath. “I- I-”

“Woah, woah. Back up. Why did he die?” Phil leaned forward, trying to catch Wilbur’s eyes.

“Because we fucking  _ lost _ , Phil!” Wilbur sat forward, head in his hands, staring at the grain of the table. “The only reason L’manberg still stands is because of a stupid fucking deal. We lost the war. I failed my country, and then Tommy challenged Dream to a duel for our independence, and I failed him, too, because...”

“He died,” Phil finished. “But you never intended to lose the war. So how is the duel your fault?”

Wilbur rested his elbows on the table. “I just-” he started, then stopped, frowning. “I should have stopped him. I should have done something else, I should have never put him into that situation in the first place, where he felt responsible for…” He motioned vaguely. “Everything.”

Phil hummed, getting up to take the water off the heat. “Yeah, you probably shouldn’t have sixteen-year-olds fighting in your war,” he said, and Wilbur’s eyes burned as he stared at the table. “But it was his own choice, was it not? You weren’t the one to tell him to fight Dream.”

“No,” Wilbur said. “I wasn’t.”

“And Tommy’s fine now.” Phil poured the water into two cups, spooning tea out of the canister and into the tea strainers. 

“Yeah.” Wilbur ran his hand through his hair. “He’s fine.”

Phil hummed. He turned back to face him as the tea brewed. “How’d you end up losing in the first place? You said you were doing well, last you wrote.”

“I don’t- I don’t know!” He buried his face in his hands. “We  _ were _ doing well, we  _ were _ . I don’t  _ know _ what happened. Everything went wrong. We were fine, and then Eret-” He groaned, ignoring the way his eyes dampened. “I should have known. I should have seen it in that smug fucking grin of his. I should have never followed him down that tunnel, I should have never trusted him... 

“I  _ trusted him _ , Phil!” Tears ran down his face, prickling his eyes. “I trusted him.”

“Oh, Wilbur.” Phil abandoned the tea. He made his way over to the table and wrapped Wilbur in a hug. Wilbur leaned into it, throwing his arms around Phil’s neck. “I’m so sorry,” Phil said, rubbing his back. “You couldn’t have known, Will. It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

And Wilbur broke for the first time since he started L'manberg. He let himself be vulnerable for the first time since he became the leader of a revolution. In his father’s arms, he cried for the sacrifices they all made, for the blood they’d seen. He cried for Tubbo and Tommy, veterans at sixteen. He cried for Eret, who played with his trust and dropped his heart in the dirt. He cried for all he was worth. Before he knew it, Phil’s wings were there, pulling him close, drenching him in a warm, soft night. It had been so long since he felt his father’s feathers. 

The wings were safety, comfort, strength. Under the wings, he let himself break a little more. 

“I love you, Dad,” he choked out between sobs. 

“I love you too, Wilbur,” Phil said, and for a little while, everything was quiet.

* * *

The last time, Wilbur was dying.

There was a blade through his heart, and it was cold, so, so cold. He saw everything and nothing all at once.

The aftershocks of the explosion were still ringing through his head. He saw L'manberg. His L'manberg, his L'manberg, his L'manberg, a crater in the fucking ground. Nothing was left. Nothing. 

Wilbur Soot was dying, blood pooling warm and sharp in the back of his mouth, cold creeping up his limbs, a sword through his chest, and it didn’t even hurt all that much.  _ Not at all _ , he thought, letting out a sigh of relief.  _ Not at all. _

Phil was there, then, holding his head up. He was crying, face ashen and tear-streaked and horrified. Wilbur was crying too, he realized. Laughing, as well, though it came out as more of a garbled, bloodied mess of air.

“Wilbur,” Phil was saying, forcing a fractured smile. “Wilbur.”

“Dad,” Wilbur croaked. 

“Wilbur.” Phil pulled him closer. He stared into his eyes, gaze sorrowful. Sorrowful, pained, gentle. Never not gentle, not for Wilbur. “I’m so sorry. I should have come sooner. I’m so…”

“Thank you, Phil,” he whispered. He lifted a shaky hand to his father’s face as if to say everything else he didn’t have the words for.

Phil’s face crumpled, and his measured breaths fractured into desperate sobs as he held Wilbur close with shaking arms.

“Are you-” He choked, then. The blood was warm and sticky and tacky, thick in the back of his throat. He was tempted to let it drown him, let it fill up his lungs until there was nothing at all, but soon Phil was holding him on his side and he was coughing it all up, hacking his throat raw. 

“Are you proud?” He tried again once he was upright. His voice was nothing more than a rasp, but it must have been audible. Phil’s eyes filled with fresh tears. 

“ _ Wilbur _ .” His voice was tremulous, wavering, soft. He pulled him close. “No matter what you do, I’ll always love you.”

Wilbur chuckled, spitting blood across Phil’s shoulder. 

Then, shadow fell across the world. Darkness fell thin and soft over his vision. It took him a moment to realize that it was Phil’s wings, wrapped tight around them. Sunlight was poking through, pinpricks here and there where the feathers didn’t quite overlap, where they were ruffled or bent or burned from the explosion. Everything else was dark, muted, soft. It was safe in a way nothing else had been, at least not in a while, safe in a way Wilbur couldn’t quite remember. The thunderous fireworks, the screaming, the writhing anxiety that had been ever-present since the war, everything was quiet. The lights looked like stars, he thought. He let out a blood-soaked sigh.

“I’m here,” Philza was whispering again and again as the starlight dwindled, fading into the velvety abyss. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.”

Dying, Wilbur Soot smiled.


End file.
